Sunday, 21 August 2016

So you wanta be a rock & roll star, or an actor in your
own movie? Best thing to do is gather some like-minded ne’er-do-wells, head to
The Bronx, and 25 years later the rest will be history!

That was
my immediate reaction after watching an “almost-final cut” of Fanatic Heart, a
movie by Vic Zimet and Stephanie Silber, devoted to the music and general
shenanigans of yours truly and Black 47.

19 years
ago without a whit of thought, I gave permission to Vic and Stef to become
flies on the wall in the rambunctious life and times of “the house band of New
York City.”

They
produced a number of official Black 47 DVDs but all the time they were quietly
filming hours of material about a band that had no shortage of drama, success
and debacle.

It’s a
brutally honest depiction. Laid bare are the excitement, tedium, musicianship, boozing,
triumphs, disasters, drive, and devotion of a band that rarely rehearsed but delivered
on stage.

The
camera is unsparing as it chronicles a riotous and righteous journey that began
in the bars of The Bronx’s Bainbridge Avenue and ended in BB King’s on
Manhattan’s Forty-Deuce. There’s no make-up artist present, no remedial paint
or powder, just the rawness of passing time taking its toll. And yet the same
fist-in-the-air defiance is as evident at the end as the beginning.

None of
it was faked. We were a New York Irish band with attitude. Right from the start
if asked to play a U2 song, my standard response was, “next time you hear Bono
sing a Black 47 song we’ll cover one of theirs.”

Fanatic
Heart pulses with the joy of musicians thrilled to be adding to the creative mosaic
of the city of Lou Reed and Walt Whitman; and that thrill was curried by the
delight of a loyal audience that would have followed us to hell – some unfortunately
did!

But it’s
the sweat-stained exultant faces of the fans that move me most. Some are still
friends, others have sadly departed; at the screening people broke into
spontaneous applause as Phyllis Kronhaus RIP, our first merch seller, expounded
on our perennially strong Jewish following in her inimitable New Yawk accent.

I
mentally trembled as the first shots of our riotous 2003 Irish Tour streaked
across the screen. Ah well, what’s a little nudity among friends; this is a movie
about a rock & roll band, not The Legion of Mary!

But then
there’s footage inside Kilmainham Jail and West Belfast, and compelling performances
of signature songs like James Connolly, Bobby Sands MP, and The Big Fellah, and
you get an inkling of what made Black 47 tick – the core principles of civil
rights and human dignity fueled by an unflinching desire to do things our way.

Many of
our supporters would have been happy if we’d dealt only with Irish politics.
But perhaps our finest hour was outright rejection of the Iraq War while at the
same time supporting those who fought it on our behalf. This stand cost us
dearly but was there any other choice for a political band?

In fact
Fanatic Heart makes clear why we never achieved the super-stardom so often predicted
for us in our early years. We just weren’t cut out to be “the next U2” - too
ornery, too pointedly political, too focused on the new song to be bothered polishing
old favorites – we never repeated a set in almost 2500 gigs. Nor did we spend
the requisite time kissing the correct posteriors. But what a blast we had!

How
interesting too to watch our beloved New York City transform over the 25 years
from $2 a pint Recession Wednesdays in Paddy Reilly’s - where Joe Strummer,
Neil Young & Brooke Shields rubbed shoulders with cops, firemen, nurses and
nannies - to the current Disneyfied hollowness of Times Square.

The
movie is completed but Vic and Stef must now raise a modest sum to fund
post-production. There are many inexpensive ways of getting involved through
Indiegogo. Visit http://tinyurl.com/FUND-B47 for
information and to see out-takes and scenes from Fanatic Heart.

You
never know, it might inspire you to form a band, head to The Bronx and begin
your own rock & roll journey.

Sunday, 14 August 2016

I was talking about Irish showbands on Celtic Crush - my
SiriusXM show - recently when I realized I’d never actually played a track by
these oft-maligned musical outfits.

So, off
with me to iTunes where I found Irish Showands – The Hits Collection – 50
tracks from greats such as The Royal, The Miami, The Capitol, The Dixies, all
the way down to unknowns the like of Trevor Kelly and the Galaxy, and The Epic.

Showbands
ruled the roost in Irish entertainment from the mid-1950’s until the massacre
of The Miami Showband outside Newry in 1975.

They
had a distinctive sound, for they sported a brass section of sax, trombone and
trumpet. Since brass was not called for in many songs, it was incumbent upon
the section to dance – or at least move in time – hence was born the showband
shuffle.

A raw teenager,
I entered the showband ranks towards the end of their reign - recruited by
Johnny Reck, a legend in Wexford musical circles. He had observed me playing a
pub gig and invited me to become his bassist with the following confidence-building
line, “Six strings seem to be a bit beyond you – let’s start you out on four!”

The
other members – a surly bunch somewhat taken with alcohol – were even less
impressed; but no matter, there was a shortage of singers and I was hot to trot.
As was my friend, Pierce Turner, who joined soon after.

We were
on the far side of atrocious, but Johnny was a nimble thinker for we played
under many names including The Liars, The Palladium, and the Johnny Reck Showband
to prevent instant identification.

We did
have a bit of a following around Wexford Town with the hip, the
hearing-challenged, and rival gangs of teenage psychos. ‘Twas in this band I
learned to play standing on one foot while kicking out at combatants sent
sprawling onto the stage. This skill would later serve me well in CBGB’s and
various drinking emporiums on Bainbridge Avenue.

At first
my teenage girlfriend refused to attend our dances for as she put it, “you’re feckin’
awful, and besides your crowd is fierce rough.”

She changed her tune soon though, for Johnny had a
brainwave: he got the band members to join the Musicians Union of Ireland. Then
he contacted all the local big ballrooms and informed the promoters that he’d
shut them down if they failed to hire union members for the warm-up band slot.

We were suddenly
catapulted into greatness. From local buckets-of-blood we ascended the majestic
stage of Wexford’s Parish Hall, and similar venues.

We had
not, however, improved musically. Most of the starring bands were decent about
this but Ben Dolan of the Drifters took grave exception. He basically agreed
with my girlfriend’s evaluation of our talents, but his language was far more
pointed and profane.

Not that
it mattered for Wexford was a pro-union town – like the revered Larkin and
Connolly we were loyal union members and had to be hired.

Ben’s brother,
the mighty Joe Dolan, said little but occasionally he’d sneak into the wings to
observe us, for what Turner and I lacked in musical sophistication we made up
for in sheer gusto. Chords, harmonies, lyrics, mattered little to us – we were
striving for Wexford originality – even if we weren’t quite sure what such a
thing might be.

For
about a year we opened for all the big names – we even started to improve -
slightly.

Then
catastrophe struck: we were expelled from the union for failing to attend the
annual mass for deceased members! To add insult to injury, my girlfriend
ditched me for an artificial insemination inspector; so I resigned from
Johnny’s band of many names and moved to Dublin.

I’ve
been moving ever since. But one night recently after a couple of drinks I
downloaded Irish Showbands – The Hits Collection and turned up the volume full
blast.

I then resurrected
my showband shuffle and danced solo to The Royal, The Freshmen, The Pacific,
The Dixies, and The Mighty Avons; and for a sweaty hour I was back in my glory
nights in Wexford’s Parish Hall with Joe Dolan smiling enigmatically at me from
the wings.